


The Violin's Lament

by heretherebemonsters



Category: Messiah Project - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath, Coping, Emotions, Gen, Mamiya's violin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-01
Updated: 2017-03-01
Packaged: 2018-09-27 17:47:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10036946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heretherebemonsters/pseuds/heretherebemonsters
Summary: If it is true that the objects we adore most absorb pieces of us, what would Mamiya's violin have to say?





	

**Author's Note:**

> So this is laughably short but just was a nagging thought that wouldn't go away. Maybe I'll expand on it later somehow. I just love the idea of Ariga hanging onto Mamiya's violin and saving it from the incinerator. 
> 
> I own nothing you recognize.

When objects are handled often, they become many things: worn-out and oft-repaired, useful or useless. Handle them too much and too roughly and they will break, sometimes beyond repair. But when handled with care, they become many more things, extensions of our limbs, minds and most of all, our hearts.

If this violin could speak, oh the stories it could tell. The stories it could tell of the things it had heard and seen, the stories of the places it had been. The multitude of voices and seas of endless faces blending together. The sweeping, echoing orchestra halls resounding with thunderous applause. It could tell stories of the emotions it had given voice to, the desperation, isolation, pain and self-loathing. Most of all, it could tell stories of the hands that had held it.

The hands that had once been small and unsure of themselves. As time passed, the uncertainty vanished to be replaced by other things that were harder to identify. There were moments, however fleeting, of pure joy that gradually became tainted with resentment, its taste bitter upon the strings. Hope had once been present but it was chased away by the resignation that the world was unkind and unfair. Loneliness came in scores, measures of unspoken pain and need written by a freshly rosined bow.

But always those hands had been careful, loving even. _His _hands.__

The violin was held these days by different hands that were no less careful but which lacked the ease of familiarity. This man was not a musician, at least not in the sense of creating beautiful music. Perhaps he was in his own manner a composer, using weapons as his orchestra and death as an overture. All the violin knew was that these hands were responsible for the absence of _his _.__

The violin knew things about this man just as it had known things about its previous owner. Shock had given way to a feeling of betrayal which ran deep. Pain was buried under many layers and barely acknowledged, especially in the presence of others. The pain of a lifetime, now compounded with the aches left behind by _him, _was only allowed to surface in the deepest hours of night. Guilt, so much guilt. It was nearly crushing, smothering, suffocating. It felt like what the violin supposed drowning might feel like, the burning lack of air. Like what _he _might have felt that day if his heart hadn’t quite stopped beating when he hit the water. This man blamed himself for what had happened, torturing himself with endless questions about what could have been done differently, all through long sleepless nights that the violin spent clutched in hands that occasionally forgot to be careful.____

The violin felt it all, absorbing these raw echoes into the wood of its body, the steel of its strings. It silently longed for the release of crying all these things, all these hurts, out to the world with the touch of the bow and _his _masterful hands. But these hands that now held it didn’t play and never would, not like he had played.__

When bitter tears splashed on the scratched wood, the violin wept too.


End file.
